


WOVEN 「２」

by DEPECHEWIZARD



Series: Woven [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: ...and then they KISS, Anxious queers need to sort our stuff out, Cardassian LGBT culture, Drug Abuse, Fluff, Garak has a tail, Garak has intrusive thoughts, Garak is too camp for his own good, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, I'm too trans and gay to take this seriously help me, Julian is trans, LIME Hahaha, M/M, Other, Thicc sexual tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Woven 2, down the scalie rabbit hole, no explicit sex, oh yeah it's the queer lizard headcanons, pwp on the horizon, sad repressed queers need a root, slice of lizard life, tailoring fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-03 08:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEPECHEWIZARD/pseuds/DEPECHEWIZARD
Summary: 'Garak returns to his shop approximately an hour after leaving for lunch. In the back room he has a pile of five pairs of trousers needing hemming, annoyingly. He far prefers dresses and skirts as a general rule- something with a little flair - most customers, however, stick to the mundane and decidedly unflattering, in Garak’s professional (and personal) opinion. Terran Pashminas, Vulcan silks and chiffons, even the most delicate of hand-dyed Andorian organza were usually eschewed for dull, colourless fare; rough cottons, stiff twill, the omnipresent ‘infinity recycle’ polyester… Garak shudders a little at the thought. At first he’d assumed he could muddle his way along, buying his fabrics from an Andorian trader who frequented Quark’s, but the trader had been driven out of business by Quark himself, and the machines that Quark had sold to Garak were now breaking down. Chief O’Brien, chuckling a little, to be sure, had expressed the opinion that Quark had 'done him dirty,' whatever that meant exactly. Highly suggestive, if anything.'Garak tries to work, but keeps coming up short. Julian continues to wait.





	WOVEN 「２」

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, anatomy lesson by tinsnip: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479
> 
> Playlist here! Think dark ambient/noise with a heavy handed dash of Depeche Mode (twinky subs of the 80s!): https://tinyurl.com/yya6cgqz
> 
> This is the second in the Woven Series. It's NSFW but not hugely explicit, the next one will be explicit sm00t and tagged accordingly. 
> 
> One of the threads in this story focuses on my headcanons around queerness in Cardassian culture. Just because this is set in the future doesn't mean you can escape from the pain of repressed queerness! There is no escape when I'm behind the keyboard.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Julian as trans, it's been a pet headcanon for a little while now, so I'm so happy I get to share it. Being a trans man myself and having to wade through a lot of cis bs lately, this series has been hugely cathartic to write. 
> 
> The phenomenon of a polluted landscape returning to health through human protection (and by being fuckin' left alone, I might add) is called 'Rāhui.' Look it up, it's a fascinating cultural protocol.
> 
> Please enjoy, feedback is welcome. Looking for beta readers! I have chronic pain and am currently bed ridden and manic. I welcome friendly interaction!

_"I still recall the taste of your tears/Echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears/My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore/Scraping through my head 'till I don't want to sleep anymore/You make this all go away/I'm down to just one thing, and I'm starting to scare myself/You make this all go away/I just want something I can never have/"_

_"...This thing is slowly taking me apart/Grey would be the color if I had a heart/Come on and tell me, you make this all go away/I'm down to just one thing, and I'm starting to scare myself…/In this place it seems like such a shame/Though it all looks different now,/I know it's still the same/Everywhere I look you're all I see/Just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be/"_

\- ‘_Something I Can Never Have_’ NIN/Trent Reznor (2002)

* * *

**III**

Garak returns to his shop approximately an hour after leaving for lunch. In the back room he has a pile of five pairs of trousers needing alterations, annoyingly. He far prefers dresses and skirts as a general rule- something with a little flair - most customers, however, stick to the mundane and decidedly unflattering, in Garak’s professional (and personal) opinion. Terran Pashminas, Vulcan silks and chiffons, even the most delicate of hand-dyed Andorian organza were usually eschewed for dull, colourless fare; rough cottons, stiff twill, the omnipresent ‘infinity recycle’ polyester… Garak shudders a little at the thought. At first he’d assumed he could muddle his way along, buying his fabrics from an Andorian trader who frequented Quark’s, but the trader had been driven out of business by Quark himself, and the machines that Quark had sold to Garak were now breaking down. Chief O’Brien, chuckling a little, had expressed the opinion that Quark had 'done him dirty,' whatever that meant exactly. Highly suggestive, if anything. 

Garak's first duty is the red chiffon dress from earlier that day. It’s a reprieve from taking up Morn’s trousers, for sure, but his mind is unusually restless; the background radiation of thought steadily climbing. He isn’t afraid, per se, but an intense greyscale is descending over the world around him, grey noise rolling in like a storm front, or a house on fire- _Don’t remember the war, Elim. _

_Julian_, in Garak’s quarters; not because of an emergency of some kind, a malfunctioning implant, or a life or death struggle. The notion alone rocks his core. Bashir hasn’t bolted, or backed down. He just sits there, across the table from Garak, smiling, occasionally fumbling and happily arguing; a bright star in an endlessly dark sky. He is a constant that transforms the stone cold reality of Garak’s life on this damned station into something salvageable, _and…_

He is struck by the sudden urge to derail this train of thought. It’s too earnest, it’s moving too fast- at breakneck speeds like this, he’ll wish for something that will never come true; think something he can never banish from his psyche. And everything will collapse, like a house shattering outwards as a bomb tears up its insides. 

He gives up after managing only the most offensive raw edges and hems. He simply, as Bashir has said on many occasion, cannot be bothered, and Garak had asked Julian to arrive at 18:00 hours. The clock on the Promenade reads just shy of 16:30. 

* * *

**IV**

Garak’s first port of call, once inside his quarters, is to rummage in the dresser’s top drawer. It doesn’t take long to find it; he remembers exactly where and when he’s hidden it- a tiny ceramic pot of rich, deep purple pigment. He sets it carefully aside and strips. He needs a shower, at least, before he can string two words together under Bashir’s oblivious gaze. He’s cold and wound up, any stored heat seeping out of his bones and through his skin. His blood, as ever in this dingy place, is chilled. He needs someone to keep him warm at night, at least; no matter how many blankets he replicates for himself, he’s still alone.

The real, hot, steaming water is exactly what Garak needs in this moment, though. It heats his blood and slows the breakneck pace of his thoughts. At night, a few hypospray sedative shots, several generous glasses of Kanar, a nearly scalding shower and he’s just about ready to sleep. Unless he’s thinking of Julian; wide awake at three AM, claws teasing his own scales, hand drifting lower- but this is always a solitary fantasy. The women on the promenade somehow scare Garak; he’s tongue tied before he can get a word in edgeways. Of course, the shop is different, but the professional mask slides on and off more easily than most. Even so, he’s tired. Exhausted, too tired to fuck… The list is too long. Garak doesn’t think of perusing it. He catches sight of himself in the mirror; hair rumpled, ridges flushed, pupils blown as he climbs into his most provocative outfit- black, a plunging back and a scooped, arcing neckline- enough to give any visitor a long, hard look at his collarbones and neck ridges. He has no idea whether Julian will even notice- this is Cardassian flirting, Cardassian _sport_ \- not human provocation. Even so, he can’t shake the feeling of being twenty again, cruising as carefully and fearfully as he can manage, eyeing men across crowded rooms, heart pounding against his ribs, wet, sticky, _humiliated_, as he catches sight of his own purple makeup in a magnificent mirror- 

He applies a daub of colour to his Chufa, staring himself down in the mirror. He feels less enticing than exposed, raw. Simply put, he is afraid, as ever. He slicks back his hair, sets it, applies a swipe of black to the waterline of each eye. He laces himself into a pair of boots, and waits. 

Doctor Bashir arrives exactly on time, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. 

“Garak!” He pauses, his face filling with a delicate wash of colour. “Hi.”

Garak arcs his mouth, delighted despite the frigid stone of fear in his chest. He’s ready for rejection, of course. One must always entertain, no, expect, rejection. By this time, Dukat would be slumped over him, hard against a wall, hands cool at his hips, gasping-

Julian is hovering by the door, bottle of ale in hand. 

“Please come in, my dear,” Garak says in one rush. He doesn’t trip over his words, though. For fuck’s sake. Standard is a terrible and inefficient language.

Julian, instead, deposits himself on the sofa and watches Garak nervously. 

“I hope the ale’s alright,” he starts, hands twisting in his lap. As if to mimic him, Garak’s tail furls and unfurls furiously behind his back. They aren’t going to get anywhere at this rate.

“My dear doctor,” he purrs, selecting a bottle of bright azure Kanar between two claws, from the sideboard. He likes to display his alcohol; it gives some modicum of order and calm to this horrible place. On the sofa, Julian looks as though he’s expecting to be eaten. Garak fires up a little at the sight, as something low in his stomach catches aflame. “Why don’t we sample some Kanar, and save your lovely ale for…” He pauses, tail swinging. “…_Later._”

“OK,” Bashir practically squeaks. _Poor man_, thinks Garak. He has _no_ idea. Garak might be horrifically anxious, drugged up to his eyeballs and painfully aroused, but this game is a familiar one. He plays it well, despite his gaping, burning flaws. 

* * *

**V**

A few glasses of Kanar in, the conversation is flowing healthily, a cool stream flowing neatly through the landscape; unencumbered and relieved of pollutants and burdens. 

“My dear, how is the Kanar?”

Julian swivels his head a little, as if to clear it, nestled against Garak’s side- apparently without realising.

“It’s wonderful. Sour, too. I thought all Kanar was syrupy sweet.”

Garak chuckles a little. He can’t help himself, Bashir has a lot to learn.

“Of course, my dear. Did you really think I would serve you the synthaholic swill that Quark ordinarily serves?”

Julian gives a small chuckle. Garak’s blood warms at the sound.

“It’s barely sweet at all,” Julian continues, a lazy smile on his face. “So fragrant, too. You’ve spoiled me for Kanar, you know.”

Garak wiggles his tail, ever so slightly, in pleasure. This man is apparently too much for him.

“My dear, I wouldn’t have it any other way, as you Terrans would say.” 

Ever so quickly, ever so slightly, a shadow passes over his warm face, like a lash of rain from a sun shower. The very tip of Garak's tail gives a tiny quirk, apparently unnoticed by its owner as he smiles into Julian's face; his reptilian bow of a mouth arcing wide. Julian only so much as steadies his grip on his glass of Kanar before Garak's tail rises and curls over his thighs. He swallows, predictably. This is nothing like a cat mooching into one's lap, sleepy and taciturn. Garak's eyes are round and bright as two moons in the low light, and gentle sway of his tail, tip brushing Julian's inner thigh, is a pole apart from drowsy relaxation. 

'My dear,' he murmurs, and Julian is again tongue tied. 'I am perfectly aware that I may be woefully deluded, and that you may be completely uninterested in me, however-' 

He takes a generous sip of Kanar. Julian, mesmerised, mimics him immediately. 

'in the interests of respecting my own skin, I must inquire as to whether-' 

This time, Julian cuts him off. 'Garak, I think that you should come out and say it.’ 

Garak rocks back a little, face in a characteristic look of prim surprise. 'Why, Doctor, I came out of the closet years ago. Besides, closets are for clothes, and with my work, as with any tailor's, one would hope -' 

"Garak. Shut up. It's bloody simple. Ask me. ' Garak's face doesn't shift, but he rocks forward again, tail flicking absently. 

'Oh yes?’ 

'Yes, you great lizard. Repeat after me.’ 

Garak looks yet more surprised, but nods neatly. 

'Julian, I would like...' 

'Julian,' Garak parrots, running a claw over a forehead ridge. 'My dear doctor, isn't this just a little forward?' 

'Garak!' Julian sighs, depositing his Kanar on the table. 'Please.' He wiggles a little against Garak's shoulder as he settles back into the couch. Garak looks down at him bemusedly. 'Julian Bashir,' Julian begins, patting his thigh absently, 'I would like to have sex with you.'

Garak's hand supporting his Kanar jolts a little. 

'My dear!' 

"Now it's out there, Garak, I accept."

Garak proceeds to spill a measure of Kanar over his neck ridges.


End file.
